Pagett, M.P. -- Rudyard Kipling

This week's theme: the summer heat

(Poem #1894) Pagett, M.P. The toad beneath the harrow knows Exactly where each tooth-point goes. The butterfly upon the road Preaches contentment to that toad. Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith -- He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth"; Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September. March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay." March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he. "Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P. April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, -- Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat. He grew speckled and mumpy -- hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way. May set in with a dust-storm, -- Pagett went down with the sun. All the delights of the season tickled him one by one. Imprimis -- ten day's "liver" -- due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever -- slight, but he called it severe. Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat -- Lowered his portly person -- made him yearn to depart. He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid," But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed. July was a trifle unhealthy, -- Pagett was ill with fear. 'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear. He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years. We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon. That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head. And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips," And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand. -- Rudyard Kipling

Notes:
 koil (usu. koel): Indian songbird
 punkah: fan
 Chota Bursat: the early rains

Kipling was never one to suffer fools lightly, and his intolerance has taken
the form of numerous highly satisfying poems and caricatures. Today's poem,
the predictable-as-a-train-wreck account of a pompous politician's visit to
a land notably lacking in the comforts of home, is typical - Kipling had a
deep and informed love for India, and was often openly contemptuous of those
who did not measure up to its rigours. (The theme is not uncommon - Robert
Service was later to write even more extreme poems along the same lines,
about the men who did not measure up to his beloved Yukon.)

This is Frontier poetry in the grand tradition, the division lines drawn
clearly between the Men of the Frontier and the effete pen-pushers back home
who would presume to govern them. And what shines through every line of the
poem is an unimstakable ring of authenticity, the pervasive feeling that
Kipling knows what he is talking about, and perhaps even that he has earned
the right to his mockery.

And yes, it really does get that hot over here :)

martin

[Links]

The short story to which the poem is attached:

[broken link] http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/words/authors/K/KiplingRudyard/prose/UndertheDeodars/enlightenmentpagett.html

[Theme]

Thanks again to Bronson Stocker for suggesting this week's theme.
Contributions happily accepted till the theme winds up.

A Reminiscence of Cricket -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Guest poem sent in by Shamanth

(Poem #1893) A Reminiscence of Cricket Once in my heyday of cricket, One day I shall ever recall! I captured that glorious wicket, The greatest, the grandest of all. Before me he stands like a vision, Bearded and burly and brown, A smile of good humoured derision As he waits for the first to come down. A statue from Thebes or from Knossos, A Hercules shrouded in white, Assyrian bull-like colossus, He stands in his might. With the beard of a Goth or a Vandal, His bat hanging ready and free, His great hairy hands on the handle, And his menacing eyes upon me. And I - I had tricks for the rabbits, The feeble of mind or eye, I could see all the duffer's bad habits And where his ruin might lie. The capture of such might elate one, But it seemed like one horrible jest That I should serve tosh to the great one, Who had broken the hearts of the best. Well, here goes! Good Lord, what a rotter! Such a sitter as never was dreamt; It was clay in the hands of the potter, But he tapped it with quiet contempt. The second was better - a leetle; It was low, but was nearly long-hop; As the housemaid comes down on the beetle So down came the bat with a chop. He was sizing me up with some wonder, My broken-kneed action and ways; I could see the grim menace from under The striped peak that shaded his gaze. The third was a gift or it looked it- A foot off the wicket or so; His huge figure swooped as he hooked it, His great body swung to the blow. Still when my dreams are night-marish, I picture that terrible smite, It was meant for a neighboring parish, Or any place out of sight. But - yes, there's a but to the story - The blade swished a trifle too low; Oh wonder, and vision of glory! It was up like a shaft from a bow. Up, up like a towering game bird, Up, up to a speck in the blue, And then coming down like the same bird, Dead straight on the line that it flew. Good Lord, it was mine! Such a soarer Would call for a safe pair of hands; None safer than Derbyshire Storer, And there, face uplifted, he stands Wicket keep Storer, the knowing, Wary and steady of nerve, Watching it falling and growing Marking the pace and curve. I stood with my two eyes fixed on it, Paralysed, helpless, inert; There was 'plunk' as the gloves shut upon it, And he cuddled it up to his shirt. Out - beyond question or wrangle! Homeward he lurched to his lunch! His bat was tucked up at an angle, His great shoulders curved to a hunch. Walking he rumbled and grumbled, Scolding himself and not me; One glove was off, and he fumbled, Twisting the other hand free Did I give Storer the credit The thanks he so splendidly earned? It was mere empty talk if I said it, For Grace had already returned. -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I've been proud of having known this poem since I stumbled across it in an
unexpected corner of an obscure cricket anthology back in college, primarily
because this is one of those pieces that everyone has heard of but hardly
anyone has read, because it's not easy to come by. Its significance is much
like that of a precious antique, which in a way is its shortcoming, for it
takes a while to look beyond the historical significance - the fact that
Conan Doyle wrote this about his only first class wicket - of WG Grace, and
appreciate it for its rhythm, its poetic beauty.

I've read it very often since then, and looking back I see I've loved it
primarily because of the allure of an amateur lifestyle that it portrays -
an age where you could study medicine, play first class cricket, referee
boxing bouts and marathons, and still produce brilliant literature, when you
could live without sacrificing any dimension of your life, without putting
your head down to specialize in any one field, when you did something simply
because you loved it without having to forfeit other aspects of your life
that you loved just as much. It makes you long for a lifestyle with such
freedom.

This reminded me of a prose piece by Arthur Mailey, "Conquering my Hero" (I
think; not sure if I remember the title right), on how he got Victor Trumper
out in a club cricket match - which I loved for giving a close up, personal
view of what's otherwise an ordinary club game, in much the same way as this
poem, even though the tone of the other piece is altogether different.

The tone of the poem too indicates that you could do something for fun,
without taking yourself too seriously, which sounds incredible in an age of
almost totally professionalized sport (and life). The rhythm of the lines,
the self-deprecatory tone, the short-story-ish flow, and the almost
microscopic focus on a single over of the game - all make this a lovable
poem.

Regards,
Shamanth

[Addendum]

Bill Frindall of BBC Sports had some more detail about the historic wicket,
in response to a reader who asked "I once heard that a famous author took a
single wicket, that of W.G. Grace, and wrote a poem about it. Who was it? My
best guess is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.":

  And a very good guess too, Lavanya. It was indeed the creator of Sherlock
  Holmes, Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, who played in ten first-class
  matches, mainly for the MCC, between 1900 and 1907.

  A lower-order right-handed batsman and occasional slow bowler, he scored
  231 runs, average 19.25, in 18 innings with a top score of 43. His only
  first-class wicket came against London County at Crystal Palace on 25
  August 1900 when he had WG caught by the wicket-keeper off a skier for
  110.

A Ballade of Suicide -- G K Chesterton

(Poem #1892) A Ballade of Suicide The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbors - on the wall - Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" The strangest whim has seized me . . . After all I think I will not hang myself to-day. To-morrow is the time I get my pay - My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall - I see a little cloud all pink and gray - Perhaps the rector's mother will not call - I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way - I never read the works of Juvenal - I think I will not hang myself to-day. The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational - And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small - I think I will not hang myself to-day. ENVOI Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall - I think I will not hang myself to-day. -- G K Chesterton

Note:
  The ballade (ba-LAHD, from the French) is a verse form consisting of three
  stanzas of 8 or 10 lines, each with the same metre, rhyme sounds and last
  line. A shorter concluding stanza (an envoi) is usually addressed to a
  prince.

It's not that great a shock to discover a Chesterton poem I haven't read
before - the man was a prolific poet (and writer) after all. Discovering
today's poem did surprise me, though - it's easily good enough, and easily
memorable enough that it should have been one of his popular poems, and
definitely one of his more anthologised ones.

One of the things that I find most noticeable about Chesterton's writing,
both his poetry and his prose, is how 'easy' it is, without any apparent
compromises. Chesterton has the rare talent of being able to write about
weighty matters, utilise a full and complex vocabulary, and nonetheless lead
the reader along effortlessly and indeed almost unnoticingly. Today's poem
illustrates this nicely - there is a surface lightness that bears the
narrative along, counterbalanced by an undercurrent of greyly philosophical
reflection that makes the superficially humorous phrasing "I think I will
not hang myself today" more sincere than flippant.

The repeated rhymes are used to very good effect, lending a cohesion to the
poem that allows the lines themselves to flit from topic to topic without
sounding disconnected. This, in turn, gives the narrator's stream of
consciousness a surprising density, so that the individual glimpses add up
very quickly to a picture of the man and his concerns. And then there's the
startlingly beautiful image in the last two lines:

  And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
  So secret that the very sky seems small -

one that marks a sudden exaltation in tone from the banality of the earlier
verses, and prepares the way for the stern foreboding of the envoi.

Altogether, a marvellous poem and one I'm pleased to be doing my part to
spread.

martin

[Links]

Wikipedia on the ballade:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ballade

And on Chesterton:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G.K._Chesterton

The Poems of our Climate -- Wallace Stevens

Guest poem sent in by Janice

(Poem #1891) The Poems of our Climate I Clear water in a brilliant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The light In the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow At the end of winter when afternoons return. Pink and white carnations - one desires So much more than that. The day itself Is simplified: a bowl of white, Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round, With nothing more than the carnations there. II Say even that this complete simplicity Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed The evilly compounded, vital I And made it fresh in a world of white, A world of clear water, brilliant-edged, Still one would want more, one would need more, More than a world of white and snowy scents. III There would still remain the never-resting mind, So that one would want to escape, come back To what had been so long composed. The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds. -- Wallace Stevens

I like this poem for its seemingly flawless finish....and how the last
line quietly unravels it. The image of the bowl and carnations is a
metaphor for the poem...beautiful, delicate, perfect. Stevens manages
to take that simple picture and make it so much more...conveying that
that perfection and 'world of clear water, brilliant-edged' is not
enough, there still remains the 'never-resting mind' that longs for
escape, since (and this has to be my favourite line!) 'The imperfect
is our paradise'. It does bring connotations of the Fall in Eden (or
is that just me?!). Our delight lies then in the flawed and the
stubborn...perhaps the most vital characteristics of what makes us
human...

Janice

[And speaking of climate, Bronson Stocker has suggested a theme in tribute
to the recent heat wave that has been gripping large swathes of the world -
an excellent idea, say I. The theme will kick off on Monday - contributions
welcomed as usual. -martin]

A Modest Wit -- Selleck Osborn

(Poem #1890) A Modest Wit A supercilious nabob of the East - Haughty, being great - purse-proud, being rich - A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which - Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute. This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His Honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?" - "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good." "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?" Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!" "My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low - He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." "Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?" -- Selleck Osborn

I have always enjoyed "anecdotal" poems like today's - short, pointed
stories that are all the more charming for being put into verse. (Perhaps
the best example is Leigh Hunt's "The Glove and the Lions", one of the few
such to attain wide acclaim.) Today's poem, I'll admit, is not even
particularly brilliant verse, just good enough to add to rather than detract
from the story being told, and to lend the punchline a little extra fillip.

Even at their most trivial, though, I think poems like this are not only fun
but important - important because they directly address the fact that one of
the purposes of poetry is to *entertain*. This is not to turn my nose up at
any of the other roles poetry fulfils - it is just that, far more so than
with prose, pure entertainment often seems to take a back seat to art,
emotion, cleverness, or even humour (which is not precisely the same
thing as entertainment). "A Modest Wit" has nothing particulary quotable or
polished, and indeed the language has not aged too well, but it amused me
and brightened up a dull moment, and in doing that I would say that it has
fulfilled its purpose admirably.

martin

Biography:
  Selleck Osborn, American journalist and poet (1783 - 1826)